


Vespre

by freddieofhearts



Series: Continuous [8]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Artistic Collaboration, Gen, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Platonic Love, The Montserrat Fic, Unusual Love Stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 04:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/pseuds/freddieofhearts
Summary: We are all used to meeting nervous people, of course, but this was quite the loss of poise. To be expected from a twelve-year-old schoolgirl presenting a bouquet, flush-faced and tentative in her step. Not usually from a man, and he wasn’t really young—though to me he seemed very young at times.Montserrat Caballé, late in the day.





	Vespre

*

We thought he was stiff, foolish, vainglorious, for those first ghastly minutes—why, it must have gone to his head, fame and so on, these sweet, shallow, delightful things. They do give one such lovely flowers! It’s something you never tire of. Oh, to think of it now, what a silliness. Such a mistake. In recollection, it’s easy to make out that he was only shy, and later we all saw him like that again and again. 

The first sign he wasn’t a conceited little beast was that his lips trembled between whatever he _could_ say. Oh, poor thing! His glass clinked against his teeth and I remember him blushing. 

We are all used to meeting nervous people, of course, but this was quite the loss of poise. To be expected from a twelve-year-old schoolgirl presenting a bouquet, flush-faced and tentative in her step. Not usually from a man, and he wasn’t really young—though to me he seemed very young at times. 

They’re all over the world of song, I learnt that quickly. In the orchestra pit, among the dressers, even on the rostrum … Not to mention the cast! You cannot seek to try the case. Leave it all to God, if you will insist on a judgment. And after all, why should you? 

I will say he had an immense sweetness to him. Even on the first day, I saw it. We meet so many that mannerisms are like a tourist map for us. Who is confident, who will be cowed, who wishes to ingratiate themselves… It was strange to see that he was frightened like that. Covering his mouth like that. 

We talked about it later, those of us who’d seen him, and I guessed he’d suffered teasing over his appearance. It can go to the heart for some, for the tender. Boys even more than girls, I think. Thank the bless’d saints for champagne, softener of fears, and brightener of spirits. 

As soon as we talked, broken as it was, the distance between us was swallowed up. 

He played with his food, like a child. Hard not to tell him off! One gets accustomed to giving corrections, expecting perfect manners. Not that he was impolite. Courtly, indeed. A very old-fashioned, English manner to him, when he wasn’t being a silly little boy. I didn’t see _that_ at all on the first day: I could tell he was charmed and intimidated all at once. 

I am not easy to abash, but I was charmed in my turn, and I felt absurd motherly feelings also. 

That got far worse the next time we met, when he looked even more ill—and the next time. No pleasure to speak of it. It still makes me cry, do you know? 

*

Hours before we made the début he was the one in tears, and I remember how he desperately tried to stop, else his face would be blotchy as well as marked. They put makeup on him but it wasn’t enough to cover his dark spots. I held his freezing hand, patting it as he tried to get control. I wanted to embrace him but truly I thought he wouldn’t welcome it then. 

Poor darling. It wasn’t simple stage fright, but how afraid he was to ruin it for me. While I knew by then, I couldn’t fail to, that I would have years of doing what I wanted left … It was his enjoyment I was worried about, not mine. 

He knew his appearance showed he was ill, even as careful as they were. Now that I’ve seen so many pictures of him as a boy, when he used to have long hair and wear glittery clothes—I understand it better. He was never physically comfortable at all, not as he looks in those pictures. There were always some signs of difficulty. 

Yes, I knew he was in pain. And by the time we were to perform, his pinched little face was puffy with water. He hated to be called fat in the press. Would never have said that to me, far too kind, but I heard him later, talking miserably to his factotum, that kind man who looked after him—and his male lover was there too, holding his hand. I’m sure he liked that better than me doing it. He wasn’t vain. I think he was only rather unhappy. 

After the last time, when I saw how near to tears he was during the performance itself, I kissed his cold cheek after we came off. Some little while later he arrived at my dressing room alone. That was most uncommon: he always had at least one man looking after him, usually more. 

Afraid to be by himself? Yes, but also he did need someone, he was already ill enough that it would have been impossible for him to manage without help. He sat down beside me—slumped, really. Weary. I thought, perhaps he wants to be comforted, and for once in my life I was right. It was the only time he ever let me see that he wanted me to touch him. He felt limp and light and fragile against my body. I knew quite well he was dying. 

Of course it is only as one gets older, that the cruelty of it is shown up more starkly. The years we could have had, that sort of thing. I still hear things and think, oh, Freddie would have loved that—but no longer the mistake, no longer the error of the present tense. That persists for a long time, but not forever. 

I knew him such a little while, yet I think it amounted to love.

*

“She couldn’t get out of bed when she heard the news. Prostrated—oh, she was so sad–”

“I think she felt a singular tenderness toward him…”

“Not only their artistic affinity—something more, something of the heart–”

“Of course. Of course she wept. She’d shed tears for a dead dog on the street. Nothing ever hardened her, not really.”

“Yes, similar.”

“It was only such a brief part of her life, but she talked about him to the end, you know. In her last week. He made that sort of mark on her…”

*

_Ah! Troppo tardi t'ho conosciuta!_  
_Sublime donna, io t'ho perduta!_  
– from the libretto of _Norma_

*

**Author's Note:**

> Vespre: the Catalan word for ‘evening’.


End file.
